Labial Ode

Now comes one of three seasons of the year
When blood runs lustily to loins
And I, having no immediate vessel,
Dab impotently on the page.
Offering ursine grunts towards the
Early morning dream of you.
Last night, over falafel, I showed a friend your picture
In answer to his questioning distress:
“Yeah brah, you should do something about that. I would.”
But what, I wonder, would be said
Between us.
Between you and your sisters,
Should I arrive unannounced at your doorstep?
And what should it matter if ever, or still,
You are feeling the same way.